


Slaves, Obey Your Masters

by faedreamer



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blasphemy, Flirting, M/M, Master/Slave, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romantic Tension, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 09:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11941743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faedreamer/pseuds/faedreamer
Summary: Ragnar is impossible to resist. Athelstan is sworn to resist. There can be no coming together for them unless something gives.It takes one simple passage from Athelstan's bible to give Ragnar what he needs to finally make the priest his. Inallways.





	1. Angele Dei

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is titled after a latin prayer that in some way applies to that section.
> 
> (This was written and posted by me under another title several years ago, then deleted. I've decided to reupload all my deleted work, so please enjoy) :)

_qui custos es mei,_

_Me tibi commissum pietate superna;_

_(Hodie, Hac nocte) illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna._

_Amen._

“Is it finished yet?”

The voice was soft and the breath warm against his ear.  Athelstan’s eyes closed, barely able to mask the shudder that rippled down his spine.  Without any real thought, his head tilted slightly to the side, though he didn’t truly notice he did it. He cleared his throat before he refocused his gaze on the vegetables on the table and tried not to chop off his finger.  “No.  Not yet.”

Ragnar didn’t move from his position, so close that Athelstan could feel the warmth of his big body against his back, even though there was a  faint breath of space between them still.  “Mmm.  It smells good.” He reached around and plucked up a mushroom from the pile.

Athelstan’s gaze flicked to the side, turning his head to meet Ragnar’s look.  Father God, his eyes were so blue.  Athelstan swallowed.  “I haven’t washed those yet…”

Ragnar gave him a wicked grin.  “I never mind a little bit of dirty, priest.”  He popped the mushroom into his mouth and then – finally – pulled away, leaving Athelstan shaking.  The man had no concept of personal space at all.

The shameful thing of it was, though, that Athelstan was beginning to find it not so much annoying as arousing.  He closed his eyes briefly and whispered a fervent prayer for strength against the temptations of his oh so weak flesh.

At the moment he didn’t even care which god answered – his or one of theirs.

* * *

“Athelstan.”

_Oh dear God, Mother Mary please…not now. Please…_

“Priest.”  Ragnar’s voice was quiet, but insistent and much closer the second time. Athelstan opened his eyes and made himself turn on his pallet, heart thumping hard in his chest at the sight of Ragnar in the faint glow of the dying embers in the fire pit, crouched down beside him.  Upon seeing Athelstan awake, his smile was brilliant and made it very hard to breathe.

“What?” Perhaps the word came out with a sharper edge than he intended, but it didn’t dim Ragnar’s smile.  For such a savage, Ragnar Lothbrok knew the power of a disarming smile better than any other man Athelstan had ever met.

“Do not snipe at me, priest.  You were not asleep.”  How he knew that, Athelstan didn’t know.  Perhaps his breathing?  The idea of Ragnar listening to him breathe should not have been as arousing as it was.  His stomach flipped over itself.  “I cannot sleep either. Come with me to the river. We can swim.”

Had he been standing, Athelstan’s knees might have buckled.  He’d seen Ragnar swim before.  Stripped to just his gorgeous, naked skin, water streaming in rivulets along the strong, lightly furred surface – it had made Athelstan’s tongue want to follow the damp paths and he’d spent a full day praying for forgiveness his wicked, lustful thoughts.

“You do not want to swim.  Go back to your bed, Ragnar.”

Ragnar was undeterred, shifting to kneel beside Athelstan, and the lengthy rise in his thin breeches made it very clear what he _did_ want.  “Perhaps not.  Perhaps I seek a moment alone.  With you, priest.”

The way he said ‘priest’ made it so much more than the word it really was.  Athelstan had long given up trying to explain the distinction between a monk and a priest.  In all truth, when Ragnar wrapped his husky, somehow irreverent voice around the word, accompanied by a lift of his brows and a twitch of his lips, Athelstan thought ‘priest’ might be the most beautiful word in any of the languages he knew. And those he didn’t.

Athelstan sat up, then, as if Ragnar might find the temptation of him lying on his back too much.  The idea that he, Athelstan, would ever be too much temptation for anyone, let alone a man like Ragnar, would have been absurd to even consider those many months ago when he’d first been brought here. He was…well, he was small and he was weak of body and not like these giants with muscles upon their muscles and blood upon their hands and braids in their hair.  He had never considered that he might inspire such primitive feelings in anyone – had never even paid attention to the existence of such feelings.

Until Ragnar had brought him here to this place where lust was not a sin but a thing to be indulged and reveled in.  Suddenly Athelstan was a sexual being and Ragnar, more than anyone, was unwavering in his pursuit.

Sometimes Athelstan had the absolutely shocking thought that he wished Ragnar would just stop asking and…. _take_.

The purely wicked idea of it made his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth went dry.  “Please,” he whispered.  “Ragnar, please, go away.”

There was silence for a long, breathless moment and when Athelstan dared open his eyes again, he was alone.

The disappointment was as crushing as a blow from the mighty ax Ragnar carried to battle.  Athelstan laid back down, turning to face the wall and spent the rest of the night telling himself his prayer had been answered, he should be grateful.  So why wasn’t he?

* * *

“He is not used to being told no.  Be patient.”

Athelstan managed to not drop the shirt-full of apples he had gathered, though his hands shook as he dumped them into a bowl and met Lagertha’s gaze across the main room.  “I…I don’t know what you mean.”

The look she leveled on him made him feel like Gyda – except maybe even younger – caught in a mother’s knowing gaze.  Athelstan squirmed as Lagertha approached, part of him wondering if she was going to bash his skull in with her shield for daring to capture her husband’s attentions.  Oh God.

Instead, her lips curved and she ran an affectionate hand through his curls, twirling one around her finger.  “I am no fool, priest.” She tsked softly and brushed her fingers down his cheek.  “Ragnar has a weakness for beautiful things, rare things.  I would be more surprised if he wasn’t so intent upon having you.”

Athelstan wasn’t shocked that she knew – after all she had been a part of Ragnar’s first advance toward him – but at how easily she accepted Ragnar’s interest.  He supposed what she said was true.  Lagertha herself was one such thing – rare as a renowned Shieldmaiden, beautiful in a way Athelstan imagined a warrior angel might be, bright with the fury and strength of battle and conviction.  Even if he thought she and the others fought for the wrong things sometimes.

But was he really…did he have the same sort of appeal to Ragnar?  The rare he could understand, he was probably the only monk for a thousand miles and the first of his kind here.  But the beautiful part?  Athelstan had truly never given any thought to his own physical appearance or what appeal – or lack thereof – it might have to others.

“And there you are looking so innocently unaware.”  She shook her head with a smile.  “It is to your benefit that I am very confident in my husband’s love for me, priest, or I might find you threatening.”

He had to snort at that.  “Me?  A threat to you?”

Lagertha shrugged.  “Well, one cannot run through affection with a sword or bash desire with a shield.”

Sometimes Athelstan found himself caught unawares by the insight of these people.  These savages who really were not. Except when they were. It was all so confusing and he frowned, shaking his head.  “It does not matter.  Whatever it is he wants from me, he cannot have it.”

She laughed, pale brows lifting.  “And you have told him that?”

Athelstan nodded firmly.  “Yes. I have taken vows that even in this new world I find myself a part of I cannot and will not abandon.”

“I find it interesting, priest, that you only say how you cannot or will not do these things.”  She took one of the apples, her expression thoughtful.  “You never say you do not want to.”

Athelstan watched her turn and go, his heart racing, head spinning.  She was right.  God help him, she was right.  Did it matter that he did not sin with his body when in his mind his sins were countless?

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.  This was Ragnar’s fault.  _None_ of this would be happening were it not for that barbarian.  He snatched up one of the apples and threw it at the wall with a snarl of frustration, then stormed from the house.  At first he didn’t know where he was stomping off to, until he began to realize his feet were leading him to Ragnar’s cliff.  And then purpose seemed to seize him, solidifying inside him.

Yes.  It was time for a confrontation.


	2. Signum Crucis

_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._

Ragnar’s lips twitched in a smile.  He could hear Athelstan thrashing his way through the thick overgrowth leading up the cliff pass.  If the priest ever meant to become a real Viking, Ragnar would have to teach him how to be a warrior.  Including stealth.  For such a small man, Athelstan made more noise than ten of Ragnar’s men moving through the forest.

He didn’t turn as the young man appeared, though he could see him out of the corner of his eye.  Curls wild around his head, cheeks flushed – he looked as though he’d just been tumbled and Ragnar’s cock stirred in immediate response.  Of course, Athelstan could have been doing no more than standing there breathing and Ragnar’s body would react the same way.  It was a tortuous cycle he found himself caught in, like a whirlpool sucking him ever farther into the one thing that would see the end of him.

“You are the master!”

Ragnar blinked, brows immediately knitting in a scowl at the harsh tone.  He turned his head and met Athelstan’s angry gaze. The priest had the good sense to hesitate and when he spoke again his tone was less strident, though Ragnar could see the anger still roiling within him.

“ _You_ are the master, are you not?”

Ragnar lifted his brow.  “What do you mean?”

Athelstan surged closer, practically sparking with furious energy. His blue eyes – a shade or two darker than Ragnar’s own – flashed and burned.  He’d never seen the young man so intense.  “I mean you ask and ask and ask, and it makes no sense because you never _asked_ me if I wanted to come here, if I wanted to stay here, if I wanted _any_ of this!  And yet you come to me all smiles and small touches and ask with sweetness on your tongue if I’ll join you in your bed – or anywhere, really.  Why?  Why do you ask when you can just take and clearly have no qualms about doing so?”

Ragnar had no idea what had spurred this outburst, but here it was and he would make a few things clear that perhaps he should have done earlier. He pushed to his feet, amused at the way Athelstan seemed to remember just how much bigger than him Ragnar was, then steel himself and glare up at him.  It made his heart do strange things, things it had not done since he’d first laid eyes on a wild young shieldmaiden who’d rebuffed his advances much the same way Athelstan did now. He doubted killing a bear and a hound would win Athelstan’s regard, however.

“Yes, priest, I _am_ the master.  I take, you are right, I take often and freely.  I take what I need for my family to thrive. I take what I need for my people to thrive.  I took _you_ for those reasons.”

“You kill for those reasons, too! Innocent people!”

Ragnar nodded.  “I do.  I will not apologize for taking care of the people I love.  Would any man not do the same for his family?  To see them safe, protected, and fed through winter?”

Athelstan hesitated, and Ragnar knew the moral battle within him was a fierce one.  His little priest had such a kind soul, like a child never exposed to the danger and fear and despair of the world. It was only recently, he thought, that Athelstan had begun to realize that there were lives – many of them – that relied upon the raids and the damage done by them.

“Then why do you not take what you want from me, as well? Your family might not _need_ it as you say, but…”

Ragnar let out a heavy sigh.  Had he so completely failed to make any impression of his feelings upon Athelstan?  Lagertha often said he was a clumsy fool. She was often right.  “Because I do not take from my family.  From them I ask only what is freely given.”

It took several long heartbeats before Athelstan seemed to realize what was being said.  His eyes widened in that way they did when he was so completely shocked he could not contain himself.  A couple of long blinks of thick, heavy lashes, and his pretty mouth opened and closed several times before Athelstan managed to speak. “You should not jest about such things.”

Ragnar frowned, pride stung.  “I would not. You should not assume the worst of one who has protected and cared for you when others would have made you a bit of fun before escorting you to the afterlife, wherever it is a man of your God goes when he dies.”

“I am a slave.”

Ragnar shrugged.  “We have had this conversation before, priest.  Are you treated like one? By me or mine?  By our people?”  Ragnar knew the answer was no.  He had made it very clear that Athelstan might be a slave but he was _Ragnar’s_ and he would move against anyone who threatened those he considered his.

“That is not the point!”  Athelstan raked his fingers through his hair, the curls longer now, more tempting than when he’d had the silly bald spot atop his head.  Now they were thick and lush and shone in the sun, making Ragnar’s fingers itch to bury themselves in the softness.  What was Athelstan saying? Ah yes, complaining about a worthless title that had no bearing whatsoever on the quality of his new life.

“Then what is?  Please tell me, because your shouting is making my head ache.” It was like having another wife.  Without the benefits of warm thighs and a sweet mouth to make the headaches worthwhile.

For a second, it seemed the priest himself might have lost his purpose of thought, because he hesitated and didn’t seem to remember what he had been saying at all. Then, unfortunately, Athelstan picked the thread back up and he threw his arms out.  “So you’re just going to keep asking?  Because _now_ I’m family and even though I am your slave you will not act like my master and take what is yours?”  He crossed his arms angrily over his chest.  “Mother of God, it’s going to be an eternity of you asking for what I can’t give and me having to say no because you’ve suddenly grown a set of morals and will not take even though I wish you would!”

Ragnar’s brows shot up.  Wished he would?  His lips curved slowly.  “Is that so, priest?”  He took a step toward Athelstan.

Almost immediately, the young man’s hands flew up in supplication and he took a step back, shaking his head.  “N-No, now…no I didn’t mean…Ragnar stop, stop right there, I did not mean that!”

Ragnar did not stop, in fact he sped his advance as – in his haste to keep the distance between them – Athelstan unwittingly reeled backwards toward the edge of the cliff.  Ragnar caught him around his waist, hauling him forward away from the precipice, heart in his throat. The priest did not seem to understand the danger he’d been in, focused instead on the danger he perceived from Ragnar and he struggled, twisting and striking out futilely.

“Let go!  Ragnar, please, don’t, I didn’t mean that at all!”

It was like trying to hold on to a mud-slick pig at slaughtering time.  Well, maybe not like that, because Athelstan was warm and his body _finally_ pressed so close was doing very nice things for Ragnar’s cock.

“You lie to me, priest,” he chuckled.  “You meant it, though I do believe you wish you didn’t.”

It made sense. Athelstan had made vows and was a man of his word.  It was one of the many things Ragnar liked and respected about him.  He could not break those vows lightly and Ragnar would not want him to, honestly. But, if he could make it easier for the priest – take the choice away so Athelstan could tell his strange God that he bore no guilt for what happened – then that was, to him, a flawless plan.  And one he would not be deterred from by false pleas from pretty, lying lips.

It took no effort at all to drag Athelstan away from the cliff’s edge and into the trees.  The priest sputtered and pleaded, his lithe, slim body trembling much like it had that first day on their way back to his home. Ragnar recalled watching him then, before he’d truly even thought of how much he wanted him, and thinking he would probably not survive the first passing of the moon.  As it turned out, Athelstan was not nearly as weak as Ragnar had assumed. He was strong of heart and spirit, if not of body.

Speaking of the priest’s body…he wore too many clothes, even if they were now those of Ragnar’s people, not the rough, ugly gowns he and the other priests had been captured in.

It took the young man a few seconds too long to realize what Ragnar was doing, because by the time Athelstan did understand and began to fight, Ragnar had his tunic unwrapped and tugged over his head and was working on his breeches.

“Oh dear Jesus, Mary, God almighty, help me…stop this, Ragnar, please!”  The whimper in his voice was like a fine ale, sweet on the tongue and sharp with the craving for more.

Ragnar turned to pin him against a broad tree trunk, ignoring his protests and simply sweeping Athelstan’s hands above his head to hold them easily there with one hand around his slim wrists.  Leaving Ragnar’s other hand free to reach down between them and finish tugging Athelstan’s breeches open.  When they fell down around the priest’s knees, Athelstan stopped fighting and froze, eyes closed, face turned away, breath coming quick and shallow.

Ragnar’s gaze was drawn to the sharp hollow at the base of his throat, gleaming with the sheen of sweat from his struggle, the flutter of his pulse just off to the side rapid like a butterfly’s wings.  He dipped his head and pressed a kiss there, smiling against Athelstan’s soft skin at the sound of the young man’s broken gasp.  He was so innocent.  Ragnar could not recall the last time he’d lain with one so untouched.  He did not believe Lagertha had ever been so sweetly innocent – she was born a warrior, though harsh conditions had honed that strength.

Not so his little priest, all soft skin and shivering mewls as Ragnar’s lips moved against his neck, tongue slipping out to taste him there. Athelstan jolted, all of the lean, slender muscles he’d gained in the past months drawn tight as if he expected to be hurt.  Once again Ragnar’s pride stung, but he told himself he could not fault the young man.  He had no idea what was about to happen. Some fear was normal the first time.

It occurred to him suddenly that when he was upset or afraid or particularly agitated, Athelstan had a little ritual that seemed to calm him.  So Ragnar straightened and pressed his lips to the young man’s forehead.  Their eyes met and Ragnar smiled before his mouth trailed a gentle path down Athelstan’s face and neck to press a second kiss to his chest, just above his heart.

Then he shifted again, to the left, tongue trailing lightly on the path to the priest’s left shoulder for yet another kiss.

“Oh God…Ragnar, no, don’t, that’s… _blasphemy_.”

Ragnar did not know that word. All he knew was his beautiful, mostly naked man of God was trembling and blushing and aroused, even if he might not want to be.  Ragnar just gave him a mischievous grin and traversed a slow, tasting route across to Athelstan’s right shoulder, punctuating the kiss there with a sharp little bite before lifting his head.

“Does it not comfort you as it has so many other times, priest?”  His hand came up to cup the young man’s cheek, one fingertip lightly tracing the delicate shape of his cheekbone.

Athelstan’s eyes were distraught, pleading.  “Please.  Ragnar, _please_ , let me go.”

He thought about it, he really did, but the conclusion had already been reached, in the end.  “No.  I do not think I will.  Because I do not think you want me to.”  His fingertip now brushed across Athelstan’s mouth, a mouth that had tormented him many nights in his dreams.  “I am your Master, priest, just like you said.  And you belong to me, just as you also said.  You have no choice.”  Their eyes met and Ragnar firmed his voice, wanting to make sure Athelstan understood.  “Do you hear me?  You have no choice.”

He did not wait for a response before he leaned in and took his first taste of the man he’d craved since first laying eyes on him in the room of treasures at Lindisfarne. Some might disagree, but Ragnar knew he’d kept the finest of that place’s treasures for himself.


	3. De Profundis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (my apologies, lol, Athelstan refused to use the word cock even in his thoughts, so there are some...interesting descriptors used instead. Silly priest.)

_De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine;_  
_Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuæ intendentes_  
_in vocem deprecationis meæ._  
_Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine, Domine, quis sustinebit?_  
_Quia apud te propitiatio est; et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine._  
_Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus:_  
_Speravit anima mea in Domino._  
_A custodia matutina usque ad noctem, speret Israël in Domino._  
_Quia apud Dominum misericordia, et copiosa apud eum redemptio._  
_Et ipse redimet Israël ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus._

 

Ragnar’s mouth was hot.  Not warm, but hot.  Athelstan felt branded and could only imagine what those scorching lips would feel like…other places.  The thought alone nearly sent him into a fit of panic.  He couldn’t let this happen, no matter what his ridiculous mouth had said.

But fighting against Ragnar was like fighting a stone wall.  Utterly and completely futile.  Ragnar simply leaned in closer to still his movements, or tightened his grip on Athelstan’s wrists.  And _no_ , absolutely _NOT_ , Athelstan did not find it at all arousing.  Not in the least.

He squeezed his eyes shut, lips pressed firmly together against Ragnar’s insistent tongue.  His refusal to submit lasted all of five seconds before the infuriating Viking simply reached up and caught his chin in those long fingers, applying gentle but firm pressure until Athelstan had no choice but to open his mouth.

Ohhh… He felt dizzy, as if he hadn’t enough oxygen, but he could breathe just fine.  How strange.  Ragnar’s tongue was as hot as his lips, an alive, slightly rough thing sweeping into his mouth as if it belonged there, taking possession the same way the man did when he stormed into a hapless village to conquer it.  Athelstan was the conquered in this instance, he supposed.

He even forgot to struggle for a bit, as his entire being was so focused on the strange, new sensation of another person’s tongue inside his mouth.  He hadn’t even known that was what one did when they kissed.  He’d lived at the monastery since he was but 8 and they certainly did not discuss how to kiss a wild-haired, blue-eyed Viking during his teachings.

When Ragnar’s mouth finally abandoned his, Athelstan gasped, sucking in breath as if he’d been an hour underwater.  “Ragnar, please…”

The Viking lifted his head, expression both amused and annoyed.  “Priest, did you not tell me once that your God had a list of things he would punish you for?”

Unsure where he was heading with this, Athelstan nodded warily.  At least Ragnar wasn’t doing unspeakable things to him as long as he was distracted talking.  “Yes.  I told you them, remember?  The Commandments.”

Ragnar nodded, his gaze seemingly locked on his mouth. It was disconcerting, but at the same time made Athelstan’s stomach clench imagining Ragnar was thinking wicked thoughts about his mouth.  “Yes. And was lying not one of those things your God hates, priest?”  His eyes finally met Athelstan’s, lips twitching in a smug smile.  “Then why do you continue to lie to me?”

Why did he have to be smart?  Why couldn’t he be a mindless heathen and brute? Athelstan glared at Ragnar and tilted his chin.  “What do you know of my God, _heathen_?” Turning Ragnar’s own words back on him.  It was not as satisfying as it should have been, because he knew Ragnar was right.

But Ragnar wasn’t bothered, or didn’t seem to be.  He brushed his fingertip over Athelstan’s lips, sending shivers through him.  “I know only what you’ve taught me. If you do not care for my knowledge, then you have only yourself to blame.”

Athelstan’s eyes stung and he was mortified by the threatening tears.  He did not want Ragnar to think he was weak. “Please stop this, Ragnar. You said you do not take from family.  I am not willing.”  He did his best to make his voice as firm, as convicted as he could, considering the shivers sweeping through him with every breath on his skin.

Ragnar didn’t say anything, just reached his free hand down between them and wrapped his fingers…

“ _Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi Te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris…_ ” His eyes closed tight as he fervently prayed.

Ragnar laughed, bending to nuzzle his rapidly murmuring lips.  “Silly priest.  Shall I give you something better to do with your mouth?”

Before Athelstan could even consider what that question might mean, his hands were released and he found himself down on his knees, much the same way as the day Ragnar had taken him to see the Earl the first time.  Except this time instead of being eye level with a table, Athelstan found himself staring right at… He closed his eyes and turned his face away, shocked.

As it turned out, he should have saved his shock, because then Ragnar began tugging open his breeches and his…his… _part_ sprang free.  Bobbing in Athelstan’s face.  So close he could…he could _smell_ the spice and musk and oh…oh Lord… He began to pray again, eyes squeezed shut. “ _De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine;_ _Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuæ intendentes_ _in vocem deprecationis meæ…”_

Ragnar sank his hand into Athelstan’s hair, and though his fingers fisted tightly, there was a tenderness, a gentle reverence that made him feel so safe – at a moment when he should have felt in the worst danger of his life.  “Stop, priest.  I am the Master, remember? It is me you should obey.  Obey me now,” he murmured, hips shifting forward.

Athelstan’s mind spun, the unshed tears of earlier spilling over finally as his mouth was filled and his senses completely overtaken by the man towering over him.  Ragnar’s thumb brushed his cheek, sweeping away the tears and his expression was gentle even as he unrelentingly sank deeper into Athelstan’s mouth, their gazes locked.

What was happening to him?  He sat there on his knees, mouth filled with the most intimate parts of  another man and yet…he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t even disgusted.  He knew it was wrong, everything he’d ever been taught told him it was wrong, but when Athelstan looked up at Ragnar, with his beautiful blue eyes and oh-so-gentle expression…it didn’t feel wrong. It felt strange and unfamiliar, but not wrong. That scared him more than anything. He was losing his way and it was becoming very difficult to care when this new path led him here with a man like that looking at him as if he were the very sun in the sky.

And when Ragnar rocked his hips again, this time Athelstan didn’t shove at him with his tongue, trying to dislodge him from his mouth.  Instead…he sucked, drawing lightly on him.

The reaction was instantaneous and startling.  Ragnar hissed, almost as if he were in pain, but the way his blue eyes flared told Athelstan it wasn’t pain causing it…it was pleasure.  It was so hard to not feel pleased with himself.  It had been almost bred into him to want to please his superiors, his Masters.  That was Ragnar now and some insistent corner of his heart was gleeful with the knowledge that here was a new way he might serve his Master and bring him pleasure.

Without his bidding, another verse from the Bible entered Athelstan’s mind. _Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ._

Ragnar had said nearly that exact thing just moments ago.  He was the Master now. It was him whom Athelstan was bound to obey. With fear and trembling and a singleness of his heart.

Perhaps it was the situation or the overwhelming feelings and sensations or perhaps it was his own weak flesh desiring this, but in that moment the pieces seemed to fall together to form a perfectly clear vision. His obedience belonged to Ragnar, and in that way Athelstan would also be obedient to Christ. God had sent him here, given him into Ragnar’s hands.  That day at Lindisfarne Athelstan swore it was God who’d torn the Norsemen’s words from his tongue and those words had given Ragnar pause and spared his life.

So was it God’s will? He thought perhaps it was.

His eyes closed briefly, and after a heartbeat of anxious hesitation Athelstan’s tongue slowly circled the hot, broad tip of Ragnar’s part inside his mouth.  His taste was strongest there, unusual but not unpleasant.  When he opened his eyes again and met his Master’s gaze, Athelstan could see the knowledge in Ragnar’s eyes.  He knew Athelstan belonged to him now in a way he hadn’t before.

Athelstan wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he suspected he was about to find out.


End file.
